The colour rushed to my face in a warm glow.

"Yes," I answered, turning slightly away from her—"I like him very much."

"And he likes YOU better than he likes any of us," she said—"In fact, I believe if it had not been for you, we should never have met him in this strange way—"

"Why, how can you make that out?" I asked, smiling. "I never heard of him till your father spoke of him,—and never saw him till—"

"Till when?"—she demanded, quickly.

"Till the other night," I answered, hesitatingly.

She searched my face with questioning eyes.

"I thought you were going to say that you, like myself, had some idea or recollection of having met him before," she said. "However, I shall not ask you to sacrifice your pleasure for me,—in fact, I have made up my mind to go to this dinner, though Dr. Brayle doesn't wish it."

"Oh! Dr. Brayle doesn't wish it!" I echoed—"And why?"

"Well, he thinks it will not be good for me—and—and he hates the very sight of Santoris!"

I said nothing. She rose to leave my cabin.

"Please don't think too hardly of me!" she said, pleadingly,—"I've told you frankly just how I feel,—and you can imagine how glad I shall be when this yachting trip comes to an end."

She went away then, and I stood for some minutes lost in thought. I dared not pursue the train of memories with which she had connected herself in my mind. My chief idea now was to find some convenient method of immediately concluding my stay with the Harlands and leaving their yacht at some easy point of departure for home. And I resolved I would speak to Santoris on this subject and trust to him for a means whereby we should not lose sight of each other, for I felt that this was imperative. And my spirit rose up within me full of joy and pride in its instinctive consciousness that I was as necessary to him as he was to me.

It was a warm, almost sultry evening, and I was able to discard my serge yachting dress for one of soft white Indian silk, a cooler and more presentable costume for a dinner-party on board a yacht which was furnished with such luxury as was the 'Dream.' My little sprig of bell-heather still looked bright and fresh in the glass where I always kept it—but to-night when I took it in my hand it suddenly crumbled into a pinch of fine grey dust. This sudden destruction of what had seemed well-nigh indestructible startled me for a moment till I began to think that after all the little bunch of blossom had done its work,—its message had been given—its errand completed. All the Madonna lilies Santoris had given me were as fresh as if newly gathered,—and I chose one of these with its companion bud as my only ornament. When I joined my host and his party in the saloon he looked at me with inquisitive scrutiny.

"I cannot quite make you out," he said—"You look several years younger than you did when you came on board at Rothesay! Is it the sea air, the sunshine, or—Santoris?"

"Santoris!" I repeated, and laughed. "How can it be Santoris?"

"Well, he makes HIMSELF young," Mr. Harland answered—"And perhaps he may make others young too. There's no telling the extent of his powers!"

"Quite the conjurer!" observed Dr. Brayle, drily—"Faust should have consulted him instead of Mephistopheles!"

"'Faust' is a wonderful legend, but absurd in the fact that the old philosopher sold his soul to the Devil, merely for the love of woman,"—said Mr. Harland. "The joy, the sensation and the passion of love were to him supreme temptation and the only satisfaction on earth."

Dr. Brayle's eyes gleamed.

"But, after all, is this not a truth?" he asked—"Is there anything that so completely dominates the life of a man as the love of a woman? It is very seldom the right woman—but it is always a woman of some kind. Everything that has ever been done in the world, either good or evil, can be traced back to the influence of women on men—sometimes it is their wives who sway their actions, but it is far more often their mistresses. Kings and emperors are as prone to the universal weakness as commoners,—we have only to read history to be assured of the fact. What more could Faust desire than love?"

"Well, to me love is a mistake," said Mr. Harland, throwing on his overcoat carelessly—"I agree with Byron's dictum 'Who loves, raves!' Of course it should be an ideal passion—but it never is. Come, are we all ready?"

We were—and we at once left the yacht in our own launch. Our party consisted of Mr. Harland, his daughter, myself, Dr. Brayle and Mr. Swinton, and with such indifferent companions I imagined it would be difficult, if not impossible, to get even a moment with Santoris alone, to tell him of my intention to leave my host and hostess as soon as might be possible. However, I determined to make some effort in this direction, if I could find even the briefest opportunity.

We made our little trip across the water from the 'Diana' to the 'Dream' in the light of a magnificent sunset. Loch Scavaig was a blaze of burning colour,—and the skies above us were flushed with deep rose divided by lines of palest blue and warm gold. Santoris was waiting on the deck to receive us, attended by his captain and one or two of the principals of the crew, but what attracted and charmed our eyes at the moment was a beautiful dark youth of some twelve or thirteen years of age, clad in Eastern dress, who held a basket full of crimson and white rose petals, which, with a graceful gesture, he silently emptied at our feet as we stepped on board. I happened to be the first one to ascend the companion ladder, so that it looked as if this fragrant heap of delicate leaves had been thrown down for me to tread upon, but even if it had been so intended it appeared as though designed for the whole party. Santoris welcomed us with the kindly courtesy which always distinguished his manner, and he himself escorted Miss Harland down to one of the cabins, there to take off the numerous unnecessary wraps and shawls with which she invariably clothed herself on the warmest day,—I followed them as they went, and he turned to me with a smile, saying:—

"You know your room? The same you had yesterday afternoon."

I obeyed his gesture, and entered the exquisitely designed and furnished apartment which he had said was for a 'princess,' and closing the door I sat down for a few minutes to think quietly. It was evident that things were coming to some sort of crisis in my life,—and shaping to some destiny which I must either accept or avoid. Decisive action would rest, as I saw, entirely with myself. To avoid all difficulty, I had only to hold my peace and go my own way—refuse to know more of this singular man who seemed to be so mysteriously connected with my life, and return home to the usual safe, if dull, routine of my ordinary round of work and effort. On the other hand, to accept the dawning joy that seemed showering upon me like a light from Heaven, was to blindly move on into the Unknown,—to trust unquestioningly to the secret spiritual promptings of my own nature and to give myself up wholly and ungrudgingly to a love which suggested all things yet promised nothing! Full of the most conflicting thoughts, I paced the room up and down slowly—the tall mirror reflected my face and figure and showed me the startlingly faithful presentment of the woman I had seen in my strange series of visions,—the woman who centuries ago had fought against convention and custom, only to be foolishly conquered by them in a thousand ways,—the woman who had slain love, only that it should rise again and confront her with deathless eyes of eternal remembrance—the woman who, drowned at last for love's sake in a sea of wrath and trembling, knelt outside the barred gate of Heaven praying to enter in! And in my mind I heard again the words spoken by that sweet and solemn Voice which had addressed me in the first of my dreams:

"One rose from all the roses in Heaven! One—fadeless and immortal— only one, but sufficient for all! One love from all the million loves of men and women—one, but enough for Eternity! How long the rose has awaited its flowering—how long the love has awaited its fulfilment—only the recording angels know! Such roses bloom but once in the wilderness of space and time; such love comes but once in a Universe of worlds!"

And then I remembered the parting command: "Rise and go hence! Keep the gift God sends thee!—take that which is thine!—meet that which hath sought thee sorrowing for many centuries! Turn not aside again, neither by thine own will nor by the will of others, lest old errors prevail. Pass from vision into waking!—from night to day!—from seeming death to life!—from loneliness to love!—and keep within thy heart the message of a Dream!"

Dared I trust to these suggestions which the worldly-wise would call mere imagination? A profound philosopher of these latter days has defined Imagination as 'an advanced perception of truth,' and avers that the discoveries of the future can always be predicted by the poet and the seer, whose receptive brains are the first to catch the premonitions of those finer issues of thought which emanate from the Divine intelligence. However this may be, my own experience of life had taught me that what ordinary persons pin their faith upon as real, is often unreal,—while such promptings of the soul as are almost incapable of expression lead to the highest realities of existence. And I decided at last to let matters take their own course, though I was absolutely resolved to get away from the Harlands within the next two or three days. I meant to ask Mr. Harland to land me at Portree, where I could take the steamer for Glasgow;—any excuse would serve for a hurried departure—and I felt now that departure was necessary.

A soft sound of musical bells reached my ears at this moment announcing dinner,—and leaving the 'princess's' apartment, I met Santoris at the entrance to the saloon. There was no one else there for the moment but himself, and as I came towards him he took my hands in his own and raised them to his lips.

"You are not yet resolved!" he said, in a low tone, smiling—"Take plenty of time!"

I lifted my eyes to his, and all doubt seemed swept away in the light of our mutual glances—I smiled in response to his look,—and we loosened our hands quickly as Mr. Harland with his doctor and secretary came down from the deck, Catherine joining us from the cabin where she had disburdened herself of her invalid wrappings. She was rather more elegantly attired than usual—she wore a curious purple-coloured gown with threads of gold interwoven in the stuff, and a collar of lace turned back at the throat gave her the aspect of an old Italian picture—a sort of 'Portrait of a lady,—Artist unknown.' Not a pleasant portrait, perhaps—but characteristic of a certain dull and self-centred type of woman. We were soon seated at table—a table richly, yet daintily, appointed, and adorned with the costliest flowers and fruits. The men who waited upon us were all Easterns, dark-eyed and dark-skinned, and wore the Eastern dress,— all their movements were swift yet graceful and dignified—they made no noise in the business of serving,—not a dish clattered, not a glass clashed. They were perfect servants, taking care to avoid the common but reprehensible method of offering dishes to persons conversing, thus interrupting the flow of talk at inopportune moments. And what talk it was!—all sorts of subjects, social and impersonal, came up for discussion, and Santoris handled them with such skill that he made us forget that there was anything remarkable or unusual about himself or his surroundings, though, as a matter of fact, no more princely banquet could ever have been served in the most luxurious of palaces. Half-way through the meal, when the conversation came for a moment to a pause, the most exquisite music charmed our ears—beginning softly and far away, it swelled out to rich and glorious harmonies like a full orchestra playing under the sea. We looked at each other and then at our host in charmed enquiry.

"Electricity again!" he said—"So simply managed that it is not worth talking about! Unfortunately, it is mechanical music, and this can never be like the music evolved from brain and fingers; however, it fills in gaps of silence when conventional minds are at a strain for something to say—something quite 'safe' and unlikely to provoke discussion!"

His keen blue eyes flashed with a sudden gleam of scorn in them. I looked at him half questioningly, and the scorn melted into a smile.

"It isn't good form to start any subject which might lead to argument," he went on—"The modern brain must not be exercised too strenuously,—it is not strong enough to stand much effort. What do you say, Harland?"

"I agree," answered Mr. Harland. "As a rule people who dine as well as we are dining to-night have no room left for mentality—they become all digestion!"

Dr. Brayle laughed.

"Nothing like a good dinner if one has an appetite for it. I think it quite possible that Faust would have left his Margaret for a full meal!"

"I'm sure he would!" chimed in Mr. Swinton—"Any man would!"

Santoris looked down the table with a curious air of half-amused inspection. His eyes, clear and searching in their swift glance, took in the whole group of us—Mr. Harland enjoying succulent asparagus; Dr. Brayle drinking champagne; Mr. Swinton helping himself out of some dish of good things offered to him by one of the servants; Catherine playing in a sort of demure, old-maidish way with knife and fork as if she were eating against her will—and finally they rested on me, to whom the dinner was just a pretty pageant of luxury in which I scarcely took any part.

"Well, whatever Faust would or would not do," he said, half laughingly—"it's certain that food is never at a discount. Women frequently are."

"Women," said Mr. Harland, poising a stem of asparagus in the air, "are so constituted as to invariably make havoc either of themselves or of the men they profess to love. Wives neglect their husbands, and husbands naturally desert their wives. Devoted lovers quarrel and part over the merest trifles. The whole thing is a mistake."

"What whole thing?" asked Santoris, smiling.

"The relations between man and woman," Harland answered. "In my opinion we should conduct ourselves like the birds and animals, whose relationships are neither binding nor lasting, but are just sufficient to preserve the type. That's all that is really needed. What is called love is mere sentiment."

"Do you endorse that verdict, Miss Harland?" Santoris asked, suddenly.

Catherine looked up, startled—her yellow skin flushed a pale red.

"I don't know," she answered—"I scarcely heard—""

"Your father doesn't believe in love," he said—"Do you?"

"I hope it exists," she murmured—"But nowadays people are so VERY practical—"

"Oh, believe me, they are no more practical now than they ever were!" averred Santoris, laughing. "There's as much romance in the modern world as in the ancient;—the human heart has the same passions, but they are more deeply suppressed and therefore more dangerous. And love holds the same eternal sway—so does jealousy."

Dr. Brayle looked up.

"Jealousy is an uncivilised thing," he said—"It is a kind of primitive passion from which no well-ordered mind should suffer."

Santoris smiled.

"Primitive passions are as forceful as they ever were," he answered. "No culture can do away with them. Jealousy, like love, is one of the motive powers of progress. It is a great evil—but a necessary one—as necessary as war. Without strife of some sort the world would become like a stagnant pool breeding nothing but weeds and the slimy creatures pertaining to foulness. Even in love, the most divine of passions, there should be a wave of uncertainty and a sense of unsolved mystery to give it everlastingness."

"Everlastingness?" queried Mr. Harland—"Or simply life lastingness?"

"Everlastingness!" repeated Santoris. "Love that lacks eternal stability is not love at all, but simply an affectionate understanding and agreeable companionship in this world only. For the other world or worlds—"

"Ah! You are going too far," interrupted Mr. Harland—"You know I cannot follow you! And with all due deference to the fair sex I very much doubt if any one of them would care for a love that was destined to last for ever."

"No MAN would," interrupted Brayle, sarcastically.

Santoris gave him a quick glance.

"No man is asked to care!" he said—"Nor woman either. SOULS are not only asked, but COMMANDED, to care! This, however, is beyond you!"

"And beyond most people," answered Brayle—"Such ideas are purely imaginary and transcendental."

"Granted!" And Santoris gave him a quick, straight glance—"But what do you mean by 'imaginary' and 'transcendental'? Imagination is the faculty of conceiving in the brain ideas which may with time spring to the full fruition of realisation. Every item of our present-day civilisation has been 'imagined' before taking practical shape. 'Transcendental' means BEYOND the ordinary happenings of life and life's bodily routine—and this 'beyond' expresses itself so often that there are few lives lived for a single day without some touch of its inexplicable marvel. It is on such lines as these that human beings drift away from happiness,—they will only believe what they can see, while all the time their actual lives depend on what they do NOT see!"

There was a moment's silence. The charm of his voice was potent—and still more so the fascination of his manner and bearing, and Mr. Harland looked at him in something of wonder and appeal.

"You are a strange fellow, Santoris!" he said, at last, "And you always were! Even now I can hardly believe that you are really the very Santoris that struck such terror into the hearts of some of us undergrads at Oxford! I say I can hardly believe it, though I know you ARE the man. But I wish you would tell me—"

"All about myself?" And Santoris smiled—"I will, with pleasure!—if the story does not bore you. There is no mystery about it—no 'black magic,' or 'occultism' of any kind. I have done nothing since I left college but adapt myself to the forces of Nature, AND TO USE THEM WHEN NECESSARY. The same way of life is open to all—and the same results are bound to follow."

"Results? Such as—?" queried Brayle.

"Health, youth and power!" answered Santoris, with an involuntary slight clenching of the firm, well-shaped hand that rested lightly on the table,—"Command of oneself!—command of body, command of spirit, and so on through an ever ascending scale! Every man with the breath of God in him is a master, not a slave!"

My heart beat quickly as he spoke; something rose up in me like a response to a call, and I wondered—Did he assume to master ME? No! I would not yield to that! If yielding were necessary, it must be my own free will that gave in, not his compelling influence! As this thought ran through my brain I met his eyes,—he smiled a little, and I saw he had guessed my mind. The warm blood rushed to my cheeks in a fervent glow, nevertheless the defiance of my soul was strong— as strong as the love which had begun to dominate me. And I listened eagerly as he went on.

"I began at Oxford by playing the slave part," he said—"a slave to conventions and fossil-methods of instruction. One can really learn more from studying the actual formation of rocks than from those worthy Dons whom nothing will move out of their customary ruts of routine. Even at that early time I felt that, given a man of health and good physical condition, with sound brain, sound lungs and firm nerves, it was not apparent why he, evidently born to rule, should put himself into the leading strings of Oxford or any other forcing- bed of intellectual effort. That it would be better if such an one took HIMSELF in hand and tried to find out HIS OWN meaning, both in relation to the finite and infinite gradations of Spirit and Matter. And I resolved to enter upon the task—without allowing myself to fear failure or to hope for success. My aim was to discover Myself and my meaning, if such a thing were possible. No atom, however infinitesimal, is without origin, history, place and use in the Universe—and I, a conglomerated mass of atoms called Man, resolved to search out the possibilities, finite and infinite, of my own entity. With this aim I began—with this aim I continued."

"Your task is not finished, then?" put in Dr. Brayle, with a smilingly incredulous air.

"It will never be finished," answered Santoris—"An eternal thing has no end."

There was a moment's silence.

"Well,—go on, Santoris!" said Mr. Harland, with a touch of impatience,—"And tell us especially what we all of us are chiefly anxious to know—how it is that you are young when according to the time of the world you should be old?"

Santoris smiled again.

"Ah! That is a purely personal touch of inquisitiveness!" he answered—"It is quite human and natural, of course, but not always wise. In every great lesson of life or scientific discovery people ask first of all 'How can I benefit by it?' or 'How will it affect ME?' And while asking the question they yet will not trouble to get an answer OUT OF THEMSELVES,—but they turn to others for the solution of the mystery. To keep young is not at all difficult; when certain simple processes of Nature are mastered the difficulty is to grow old!"

We all sat silent, waiting in mute expectancy. The servants had left us, and only the fruits and dainties of dessert remained to tempt us in baskets and dishes of exquisitely coloured Venetian glass, contrasting with the graceful clusters of lovely roses and lilies which added their soft charm to the decorative effect of the table, and Santoris passed the wine, a choice Chateau-Yquem, round to us all before beginning to speak again. And when he did speak, it was in a singularly quiet, musical voice which exercised a kind of spell upon my ears—I had heard that voice before—ah!—how often! How often through the course of my life had I listened to it wonderingly in dreams of which the waking morning brought no explanation! How it had stolen upon me like an echo from far away, when alone in the pauses of work and thought I had longed for some comprehension and sympathy! And I had reproached myself for my own fancies and imaginings, deeming them wholly foolish and irresponsible! And now! Now its gentle and familiar tone went straight to the centre of my spiritual consciousness, and forced me to realise that for the Soul there is no escape from its immortal remembrance!



XI

ONE WAY OF LOVE

"When I left Oxford," he said—"as I told you before, I left what I conceived to be slavery—that is, a submissively ordered routine of learning in which there occurred nothing new—nothing hopeful— nothing really serviceable. I mastered all there was to master, and carried away 'honours' which I deemed hardly worth winning. It was supposed then—most people would suppose it—that as I found myself the possessor of an income of between five and six thousand a year, I would naturally 'live my life,' as the phrase goes, and enter upon what is called a social career. Now to my mind a social career simply means social sham—and to live my life had always a broader application for me than for the majority of men. So, having ascertained all I could concerning myself and my affairs from my father's London solicitors, and learning exactly how I was situated with regard to finances and what is called the 'practical' side of life, I left England for Egypt, the land where I was born. I had an object in view,—and that object was not only to see my own old home, but to find out the whereabouts of a certain great sage and mystic philosopher long known in the East by the name of Heliobas."

I started, and the blood rushed to my cheeks in a burning flame.

"I think YOU knew him," he went on, addressing me directly, with a straight glance—"You met him some years back, did you not?"

I bent my head in silent assent,—and saw the eyes of my host and hostess turned upon me in questioning scrutiny.

"In a certain circle of students and mystics he was renowned," continued Santoris,—"and I resolved to see what he could make of me—what he would advise, and how I should set to work to discover what I had resolved to find. However, at the end of a long and tedious journey, I met with disappointment—Heliobas had removed to another sphere of action—"

"He was dead, you mean," interposed Mr. Harland.

"Not at all," answered Santoris, calmly. "There is no death. To put it quite simply, he had reached the top of his class in this particular school of life and learning and, therefore, was ready and willing to pass on into the higher grade. He, however, left a successor capable of maintaining the theories he inculcated,—a man named Aselzion, who elected to live in an almost inaccessible spot among mountains with a few followers and disciples. Him I found after considerable difficulty—and we came to understand each other so well that I stayed with him some time studying all that he deemed needful before I started on my own voyage of discovery. His methods of instruction were arduous and painful—in fact, I may say I went through a veritable ordeal of fire—"

He broke off, and for a moment seemed absorbed in recollections.

"You are speaking, I suppose, of some rule of life, some kind of novitiate to which you had to submit yourself," said Mr. Harland— "Or was it merely a course of study?"

"In one sense it was a sort of novitiate or probation," answered Santoris, slowly, with the far-away, musing look still in his eyes— "In another it was, as you put it, 'merely' a course of study. Merely! It was a course of study in which every nerve, every muscle, every sinew was tested to its utmost strength—and in which a combat between the spiritual and material was fiercely fought till the one could master the other so absolutely as to hold it in perfect subjection. Well! I came out of the trial fairly well—strong enough at any rate to stand alone—as I have done ever since."

"And to what did your severe ordeal lead?" asked Dr. Brayle, who by this time appeared interested, though still wearing his incredulous, half-sneering air—"To anything which you could not have gained just as easily without it?"

Santoris looked straight at him. His keen eyes glowed as though some bright fire of the soul had leaped into them.

"In the first place," he answered—"it led me to power! Power,—not only over myself but over all things small and great that surround or concern my being. I think you will admit that if a man takes up any line of business, it is necessary for him to understand all its technical methods and practical details. My business was and IS Life!—the one thing that humanity never studies, and therefore fails to master."

Mr. Harland looked up.

"Life is mysterious and inexplicable," he said—"We cannot tell why we live. No one can fathom that mystery. We are Here through no conscious desire of our own,—and again we are NOT here just as we have learned to accommodate ourselves to the fact of being Anywhere!"

"True!" answered Santoris—"But to understand the 'why' of life we must first of all realise that its origin Is Love. Love creates life because it MUST; even agnostics, when pushed to the wall in argument grant that some mysterious and mighty Force is at the back of creation,—a Force which is both intelligent and beneficent. The trite saying 'God is Love' is true enough, but it is quite as true to say 'Love is God.' The commencement of universes, solar systems and worlds is the desire of Love to express Itself. No more and no less than this. From desire springs action,—from action life. It only remains for each living unit to bring itself into harmonious union with this one fundamental law of the whole cosmos,—the expression and action of Love which is based, as naturally it must be, on a dual entity."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Dr. Brayle.

"As a physician, and I presume as a scientist, you ought scarcely to ask," replied Santoris, with a slight smile. "For you surely know there is no single thing in the Universe. The very microbes of disease or health go in pairs. Light and darkness,—the up and the down,—the right and the left,—the storm and the calm,—the male and the female,—all things are dual; and the sorrows of humanity are for the most part the result of ill-assorted numbers,—figures brought together that will not count up properly—wrong halves of the puzzle that will never fit into place. The mischief runs through all civilization,—wrong halves of races brought together which do not and never can assimilate,—and in an individual personal sense wrong halves of spirit and matter are often forced together which are bound by law to separate in time with some attendant disaster. The error is caused by the obstinate miscomprehension of man himself as to the nature and extent of his own powers and faculties. He forgets that he is not 'as the beasts that perish,' but that he has the breath of God in him,—that he holds within himself the seed of immortality which is perpetually re-creative. He is bound by all the laws of the Universe to give that immortal life its dual entity and attendant power, without which he cannot attain his highest ends. It may take him thousands of years—cycles of time,—but it has to be done. Materially speaking, he may perhaps consider that he has secured his dual entity by a pleasing or fortunate marriage—but if he is not spiritually mated, his marriage is useless,—ay! worse than useless, as it only interposes fresh obstacles between himself and his intended progress."

"Marriage can hardly be called a useless institution," said Dr. Brayle, with an uplifting of his sinister brows; "It helps to populate the world."

"It does," answered Santoris, calmly—"But if the pairs that are joined in marriage have no spiritual bond between them and nothing beyond the attraction of the mere body—they people the world with more or less incapable, unthinking and foolish creatures like themselves. And supposing these to be born in tens of millions, like ants or flies, they will not carry on the real purpose of man's existence to anything more than that stoppage and recoil which is called Death, but which in reality is only a turning back of the wheels of time when the right road has been lost and it becomes imperative to begin the journey all over again."

We sat silent; no one had any comment to offer.

"We are arriving at that same old turning-point once more," he continued—"The Western civilisation of two thousand years, assisted (and sometimes impeded) by the teachings of Christianity, is nearing its end. Out of the vast wreckage of nations, now imminent, only a few individuals can be saved,—and the storm is so close at hand that one can almost hear the mutterings of the thunder! But why should I or you or anyone else think about it? We have our own concerns to attend to—and we attend to these so well that we forget all the most vital necessities that should make them of any importance! However—in this day—nothing matters! Shall I go on with my own story, or have you heard enough?"

"Not half enough!" said Catherine Harland, quite suddenly—she had scarcely spoken before, but she now leaned forward, looking eagerly interested—"You speak of power over yourself,—do you possess the same power over others?"

"Not unless they come into my own circle of action," he answered. "It would not be worth my while to exert any influence on persons who are, and ever must be, indifferent to me. I can, of course, defend myself against enemies—and that without lifting a hand."

Everyone, save myself, looked at him inquisitively,—but he did not explain his meaning. He went on very quietly with his own personal narrative.

"As I have told you," he said—"I came out of my studies with Aselzion successfully enough to feel justified in going on with my work alone. I took up my residence in Egypt in my father's old home- -a pretty place enough with wide pleasure grounds planted thickly with palm trees and richly filled with flowers,—and here I undertook the mastery and comprehension of the most difficult subject ever propounded for learning—the most evasive, complex, yet exact piece of mathematics ever set out for solving—Myself! Myself was my puzzle! How to unite myself with Nature so thoroughly as to insinuate myself into her secrets,—possess all she could offer me,- -and yet detach myself from Self so completely as to be ready to sacrifice all I had gained at a moment's notice should that moment come."

"You are paradoxical," said Mr. Harland, irritably. "What's the use of gaining anything if it is to be lost at a moment's bidding?"

"It is the only way to hold and keep whatever there is to win," answered Santoris, calmly—"And the paradox is no greater than that of 'He that loveth his life shall lose it.' The only 'moment' of supreme self-surrender is Love—when that comes everything else must go. Love alone can compass life, perfect it, complete it and carry it on to eternal happiness. But please bear in mind that I am speaking of real Love,—not mere physical attraction. The two things are as different as light from darkness."

"Is your curious conception or ideal of love the reason, why you have never married?" asked Brayle, abruptly.

"Precisely!" replied Santoris. "It is most unquestionably and emphatically the reason why I have never married."

There was a pause. I saw Catherine glancing at him with a strange furtiveness in which there was something of fear.

"You have never met your ideal, I suppose?" she asked, with a faint smile.

"Oh yes, I've met her!" he answered—"Ages ago! On many occasions I have met her;—sometimes she has estranged herself from me,— sometimes she has been torn from me by others—and still more often I have, through my own folly and obstinacy, separated myself from her—but our mutual mistakes do no more than delay the inevitable union at last."—Here he spoke slowly and with marked meaning—"For it IS an inevitable union!—as inevitable as that of two electrons which, after spinning in space for certain periods of time, rush together at last and remain so indissolubly united that nothing can ever separate them."

"And then?" queried Dr. Brayle, with an ironical air.

"Then? Why, everything is possible then! Beauty, perfection, wisdom, progress, creativeness, and a world—even worlds—of splendid thought and splendid ideals, bound to lead to still more splendid realisation! It is not difficult to imagine two brains, two minds moving so absolutely in unison that like a grand chord of music they strike harmony through hitherto dumb life-episodes—but think of two immortal souls full of a love as deathless as themselves, conjoined in highest effort and superb attainment!—the love of angel for angel, of god for god! You think this ideal imaginative,— transcendental—impossible!—yet I swear to you it is the most REAL possibility in this fleeting mirage of a world!"

His voice thrilled with a warmth of feeling and conviction, and as I heard him speak I trembled inwardly with a sudden remorse—a quick sense of inferiority and shame. Why could I not let myself go? Why did I not give the fluttering spirit within me room to expand its wings? Something opposing,—something inimical to my peace and happiness held me back—and presently I began to wonder whether I should attribute it to the influence of those with whom I was temporarily associated. I was almost confirmed in this impression when Mr. Harland's voice, harsh and caustic as it could be when he was irritated or worsted in an argument, broke the momentary silence.

"You are more impossible now than you ever were at Oxford, Santoris!" he said—"You out-transcend all transcendentalism! You know, or you ought to know by this time, that there is no such thing as an immortal soul—and if you believe otherwise you have brought yourself voluntarily into that state of blind credulity. All science teaches us that we are the mere spawn of the planet on which we live,—we are here to make the best of it for ourselves and for others who come after us—and there's an end. What is called Love is the mere physical attraction between the two sexes—no more,—and it soon palls. All that we gain we quickly cease to care for—it is the way of humanity."

"What a poor creation humanity is, then!" said Santoris, with a smile—"How astonishing that it should exist at all for no higher aims than those of the ant or the mouse! My dear Harland, if your beliefs were really sound we should be bound in common duty and charity to stop the population of the world altogether—for the whole business is useless. Useless and even cruel, for it is nothing but a crime to allow people to be born for no other end than extinction! However, keep your creeds! I thank Heaven they are not mine!"

Mr. Harland gave a slight movement of impatience. I could see that he was disturbed in his mind.

"Let's talk of something I can follow," he said—"the personal and material side of things. Your perennial condition of health, for example. Your apparent youth—"

"Oh, is it only 'apparent'?" laughed Santoris, gaily—"Well, to those who never knew me in my boyhood's days and are therefore never hurling me back to their 'thirty years or more ago' of friendship, etc., my youth seems very actual! You see their non-ability to count up the time I have spent on earth obliges them to accept me at my own valuation! There's really nothing to explain in the matter. Everyone can keep young if he understands himself and Nature. If I were to tell you the literal truth of the process, you would not believe me,—and even if you did you would not have the patience to carry it out! But what does it matter after all? If we only live for the express purpose of dying, the sooner we get the business over and done with the better—youth itself has no charms under such circumstances. All the purposes of life, however lofty and nobly planned, are bound to end in nothingness,—and it is hardly worth while taking the trouble to breathe the murderous air!"

He spoke with a kind of passion—his eyes were luminous—his face transfigured with an almost superhuman glow, and we all looked at him in something of amazement.

Mr. Harland fidgeted uneasily in his chair.

"You go too far!" he said—"Life is agreeable as long as it lasts—"

"Have you found it so?" Santoris interrupted him. "Has it not, even in your pursuit and attainment of wealth, brought you more pain than pleasure? Number up all the possibilities of life, from the existence of the labourer in his hut to that of the king on his throne, they are none of them worth striving for or keeping if death is the ultimate end. Ambition is merest folly,—wealth a temporary possession of perishable goods which must pass to others,—fame a brief noise of one's name in mouths that will soon be dumb,—and love, sex-attraction only. What a treacherous and criminal act, then, is this Creation of Universes!—what mad folly!—what sheer, blind, reasonless wickedness!"

There was a silence. His eyes flashed from one to the other of us.

"Can you deny it?" he demanded. "Can you find any sane, logical reason for the continuance of life which is to end in utter extinction, or for the creation of worlds doomed to eternal destruction?"

No one spoke.

"You have no answer ready," he said—and smiled—"Naturally! For an answer is impossible! And here you have the key to what you consider my mystery—the mystery of keeping young instead of growing old—the secret of living instead of dying! It is simply the conscious PRACTICAL realisation that there is no Death, but only Change. That is the first part of the process. Change, or transmutation and transformation of the atoms and elements of which we are composed, is going on for ever without a second's cessation,—it began when we were born and before we were born—and the art of LIVING YOUNG consists simply in using one's soul and will-power to guide this process of change towards the ends we desire, instead of leaving it to blind chance and to the association with inimical influences, which interfere with our best actions. For example—I—a man in sound health and condition—realise that with every moment SOME change is working in me towards SOME end. It rests entirely with myself as to whether the change shall be towards continuance of health or towards admission of disease—towards continuance of youth or towards the encouragement of age,—towards life as it presents itself to me now, or towards some other phase of life as I perceive it in the future. I can advance or retard myself as I please—the proper management of Myself being my business. If I should suffer pain or illness I am very sure it will be chiefly through my own fault—if I invite decay and decrepitude, it will be because I allow these forces to encroach upon my well-being—in fact, briefly—I AM what I WILL to be!—and all the laws that brought me into existence support me in this attitude of mind, body and spirit!"

"If we could all become what we WOULD be," said Dr. Brayle, "we should attain the millennium!"

"Are you sure of that?" queried Santoris. "Would it not rather depend on the particular choice each one of us might make? You, for example, might wish to be something that would hardly tend to your happiness,—and your wish being obtained you might become what (if you had only realised it) you would give worlds not to be! Some men desire to be thieves—even murderers—and become so—but the end of their desires is not perhaps what they imagined!"

"Can you read people's thoughts?" asked Catherine, suddenly.

Santoris looked amused. He replied by a counter question.

"Would you be sorry if I could?"

She flushed a little. I smiled, knowing what was in her mind.

"It would be a most unpleasant accomplishment—that of reading the thoughts of others," said Mr. Harland; "I would rather not cultivate it." "But Mr. Santoris almost implies that he possesses it," said Dr. Brayle, with a touch of irritation in his manner; "And, after all, 'thought-reading' is a kind of society amusement nowadays. There is nothing very difficult in it."

"Nothing, indeed!" agreed Santoris, lightly; "And being as easy as it is, why do you not show us at once that antique piece of jewellery you have in your pocket! You brought it with you this evening to show to me and ask my opinion of its value, did you not?"

Brayle's eyes opened in utter amazement. If ever a man was taken completely by surprise, he was.

"How did you know?" he began, stammeringly, while Mr. Harland, equally astonished, stared at him through his round spectacles as though challenging some defiance.

Santoris laughed.

"Thought-reading is only a society amusement, as you have just observed," he said—"And I have been amusing myself with it for the last few minutes. Come!—let us see your treasure!"

Dr. Brayle was thoroughly embarrassed,—but he tried to cover his confusion by an awkward laugh.

"Well, you have made a very clever hit!" he said—"Quite a random shot, of course—which by mere coincidence went to its mark! It's quite true I have brought with me a curious piece of jewel-work which I always carry about wherever I go—and something moved me to- night to ask your opinion of its value, as well as to place its period. It is old Italian; but even experts are not agreed as to its exact date."

He put his hand in his breast pocket and drew out a small silk bag from which he took with great care a collar of jewels, designed in a kind of chain-work which made it perfectly flexible. He laid it out on the table,—and I bit my lip hard to suppress an involuntary exclamation. For I had seen the thing before—and for the immediate moment could not realise where, till a sudden flash of light through the cells of my brain reminded me of that scene of love and death in the vision of the artist's studio when the name 'Cosmo de Medicis' had been whispered like an evil omen. The murderer in that dream- picture had worn a collar of jewels precisely similar to the one I now saw; but I could only keep silence and listen with every nerve strained to utmost attention while Santoris took the ornament in his hand and looked at it with an intent earnestness in which there was almost a touch of compassion.

"A beautiful piece of workmanship," he said, at last, slowly, while Mr. Harland, Catherine, and Swinton the secretary all drew up closer to him at the table and leaned eagerly forward—"And I should say"— here he raised his eyes and looked full at the dark, brooding, sinister face of Brayle—"I should say that it belonged to the Medici period. It must have been part of the dress of a nobleman of that time—the design seems to me to be Florentine. Perhaps if these jewels could speak they might tell a strange story!—they are unhappy stones!"

"Unhappy!" exclaimed Catherine—"You mean unlucky?"

"No!—there is no such thing as luck," answered Santoris, quietly, turning the collar over and over in his hands—"Not for either jewels or men! But there IS unhappiness,—and unhappiness simply means life being put to wrong uses. I call these gems 'unhappy' because they have been wrongfully used. A precious stone is a living thing—it absorbs influences as the earth absorbs light, and these jewels have absorbed some sense of evil that renders them less beautiful than they might be. These diamonds and rubies, these emeralds and sapphires, have not the full lustre of their own true nature,—they are in the condition of pining flowers. It will take centuries before they resume their natural brilliancy. There is some tragedy hidden among them."

Dr. Brayle looked amused.

"Well, I can give you no history of them," he said—"A friend of mine bought the collar from an old Jew curiosity dealer in a back street of Florence and sent it to me to wear with a Florentine dress at a fancy dress ball. Curiously enough I chose to represent one of the Medicis, some artist having told me my features resembled their type of countenance. That's the chronicle, so far as I am concerned. I rather liked it on account of its antiquity. I could have sold it many times over, but I have no desire to part with it."

"Naturally!"—and Santoris passed on the collar to everyone to examine—"You feel a sense of proprietorship in it."

Catherine Harland had the trinket in her hand, and a curious vague look of terror came over her face as she presently passed it back to its owner. But she made no remark and it was Mr. Harland who resumed the conversation.

"That's an odd idea of yours about unhappy jewels," he said— "Perhaps the misfortune attending the possessors of the famous blue Hope diamond could be traced to some early tragedy connected with it."

"Unquestionably!" replied Santoris. "Now look at this!"—and he drew from his watch pocket a small fine gold chain to which was attached a moonstone of singular size and beauty, set in a circle of diamonds—"Here is a sort of talismanic jewel—it has never known any disastrous influences, nor has it been disturbed by malevolent surroundings. It is a perfectly happy, unsullied gem! As you see, the lustre is perfect—as clear as that of a summer moon in heaven. Yet it is a very old jewel and has seen more than a thousand years of life."

We all examined the beautiful ornament, and as I held it in my hand a moment it seemed to emit tiny sparks of luminance like a flash of moonlight on rippling waves.

"Women should take care that their jewels are made happy," he continued, looking at me with a slight smile, "That is, if they want them to shine. Nothing that lives is at its best unless it is in a condition of happiness—a condition which after all is quite easy to attain."

"Easy! I should have thought nothing was so difficult!" said Mr. Harland.

"Nothing certainly is so difficult in the ordinary way of life men choose to live," answered Santoris—"For the most part they run after the shadow and forsake the light. Even in work and the creative action of thought each ordinary man imagines that his especial work being all-important, it is necessary for him to sacrifice everything to it. And he does,—if he is filled with worldly ambition and selfish concentration; and he produces something—anything—which frequently proves to be ephemeral as gossamer dust. It is only when work is the outcome of a great love and keen sympathy for others that it lasts and keeps its influence. Now we have talked enough about all these theories, which are not interesting to anyone who is not prepared to accept them—shall we go up on deck?"

We all rose at once, Santoris holding out a box of cigars to the men to help themselves. Catherine and I preceded them up the saloon stairs to the deck, which was now like a sheet of silver in the light shed by one of the loveliest moons of the year. The water around was sparkling with phosphorescence and the dark mountains looked higher and more imposing than ever, rising as they seemed to do sheer up from the white splendour of the sea. I leaned over the deck rail, gazing down into the deep liquid mirror of stars below, and my heart was heavy and full of a sense of bitterness and tears. Catherine had dropped languidly into a chair and was leaning back in it with a strange, far-away expression on her tired face. Suddenly she spoke with an almost mournful gentleness.

"Do you like his theories?"

I turned towards her enquiringly.

"I mean, do you like the idea of there being no death and that we only change from one life to another and so on for ever?" she continued. "To me it is appalling! Sometimes I think death the kindest thing that can happen—especially for women."

I was in the mood to agree with her. I went up to her and knelt down by her side.

"Yes!" I said, and I felt the tremor of tears in my voice—"Yes, for women death often seems very kind! When there is no love and no hope of love,—when the world is growing grey and the shadows are deepening towards night,—when the ones we most dearly love misjudge and mistrust us and their hearts are closed against our tenderness, then death seems the greatest god of all!—one before whom we may well kneel and offer up our prayers! Who could, who WOULD live for ever quite alone in an eternity without love? Oh, how much kinder, how much sweeter would be utter extinction—"

My voice broke; and Catherine, moved by some sudden womanly impulse, put her arm round me.

"Why, you are crying!" she said, softly. "What is it? You, who are always so bright and happy!"

I quickly controlled the weakness of my tears.

"Yes, it is foolish!" I said—"But I feel to-night as if I had wasted a good part of my life in useless research,—in looking for what has been, after all, quite close to my hand,—only that I failed to see it!—and that I must go back upon the road I thought I had passed—"

Here I paused. I saw she could not understand me.

"Catherine," I went on, abruptly—"Will you let me leave you in a day or two? I have been quite a fortnight with you on board the 'Diana,' and I think I have had enough holiday. I should like"—and I looked up at her from where I knelt—"I should like to part from you while we remain good friends—and I have an idea that perhaps we shall not agree so well if we learn to know more of each other."

She bent her eyes upon me with a half-frightened expression.

"How strange you should think that!" she murmured—"I have felt the same—and yet I really like you very much—I always liked you—I wish you would believe it!"

I smiled.

"Dear Catherine," I said—"it is no use shutting our eyes to the fact that while there is something which attracts us to each other, there is also something which repels. We cannot argue about it or analyse it. Such mysterious things DO occur,—and they are beyond our searching out—"

"But," she interrupted, quickly—"we were not so troubled by these mysterious things till we met this man Santoris—"

She broke off, and I rose to my feet, as just then Santoris approached, accompanied by Mr. Harland and the others.

"I have suggested giving you a sail by moonlight before you leave," he said. "It will be an old experience for you under new conditions. Sailing by moonlight in an ordinary sense is an ordinary thing,—but sailing by moonlight with the moonlight as part of our motive power has perhaps a touch of originality."

As he spoke he made a sign to one of his men who came up to receive his orders, which were given in too low a tone for us to hear. Easy deck chairs were placed for all the party, and we were soon seated in a group together, somewhat silently at first, our attention being entirely riveted on the wonderful, almost noiseless way in which the sails of the 'Dream' were unfurled. There was no wind,—the night was warm and intensely still—the sea absolutely calm. Like broad white wings, the canvas gradually spread out under the deft, quick hands of the sailors employed in handling it,—the anchor was drawn up in the same swift and silent manner—then there came an instant's pause. Mr. Harland drew his cigar from his mouth and looked up amazed, as we all did, at the mysterious way in which the sails filled out, pulling the cordage tightly into bands of iron strength,—and none of us could restrain an involuntary cry of wonder and admiration as their whiteness began to glitter with the radiance of hoar-frost, the strange luminance deepening in intensity till it seemed as if the whole stretch of canvas from end to end of the magnificent schooner was a mass of fine jewel-work sparkling under the moon.

"Well! However much I disagree with your theories of life, Santoris," said Mr. Harland,—"I will give you full credit for this extraordinary yacht of yours! It's the most wonderful thing I ever saw, and you are a wonderful fellow to have carried out such an unique application of science. You ought to impart your secret to the world."

Santoris laughed lightly.

"And the world would take a hundred years or more to discuss it, consider it, deny it, and finally accept it," he said—"No! One grows tired of asking the world to be either wise or happy. It prefers its own way—just as I prefer mine. It will discover the method of sailing without wind, and it will learn how to make every sort of mechanical progress without steam in time—but not in our day,—and I, personally, cannot afford to wait while it is slowly learning its ABC like a big child under protest. You see we're going now!"

We were 'going' indeed,—it would have been more correct to say we were flying. Over the still water our vessel glided like a moving beautiful shape of white fire, swiftly and steadily, with no sound save the little hissing murmur of the water cleft under her keel. And then like a sudden whisper from fairyland came the ripple of harp-strings, running upward in phrases of exquisite melody, and a boy's voice, clear, soft and full, began to sing, with a pure enunciation which enabled us to hear every word:

Sailing, sailing! Whither? What path of the flashing sea Seems best for you and me? No matter the way, By night or day, So long as we sail together!

Sailing, sailing! Whither? Into the rosy grace Of the sun's deep setting-place? We need not know How far we go, So long as we sail together!

Sailing, sailing! Whither? To the glittering rainbow strand Of Love's enchanted land? We ask not where In earth or air, So long as we sail together!

Sailing, sailing! Whither? On to the life divine,— Your soul made one with mine! In Heaven or Hell All must be well, So long as we sail together!

The song finished with a passionate chord which, played as it was with swift intensity, seemed to awaken a response from the sea,—at any rate a strange shivering echo trembled upward as it were from the water and floated into the spacious silence of the night. My heart beat with uncomfortable quickness and my eyes grew hot with the weight of suppressed tears;—why could I not escape from the cruel, restraining force that held my real self prisoner as with manacles of steel? I could not even speak; and while the others were clapping their hands in delighted applause at the beauty of both voice and song, I sat silent.

"He sings well!" said Santoris—"He is the Eastern lad you saw when you came on deck this morning. I brought him from Egypt. He will give us another song presently. Shall we walk a little?"

We rose and paced the deck slowly, gradually dividing in couples, Catherine and Dr. Brayle—Mr. Harland and his secretary,—Santoris and myself. We two paused together at the stern of the vessel looking towards the bowsprit, which seemed to pierce the distance of sea and sky like a flying arrow.

"You wish to speak to me alone," said Santoris, then—"Do you not? Though I know what you want to say!"

I glanced at him with a touch of defiance.

"Then I need not speak," I answered.

"No, you need not speak, unless you give utterance to what is in your true soul," he said—"I would rather you did not play at conventions with me."

For the moment I felt almost angry.

"I do not play at conventions," I murmured.

"Oh, do you not? Is that quite candid?"

I raised my eyes and met his,—he was smiling. Some of the oppression in my soul suddenly gave way, and I spoke hurriedly in a low tone.

"Surely you know how difficult it is for me?" I said. "Things have happened so strangely,—and we are surrounded here by influences that compel conventionality. I cannot speak to you as frankly as I would under other circumstances. It is easy for YOU to be yourself;- -you have gained the mastery over all lesser forces than your own. But with me it is different—perhaps when I am away I shall be able to think more calmly—"

"You are going away?" he asked, gently.

"Yes. It is better so."

He remained silent. I went on, quickly.

"I am going away because I feel inadequate and unable to cope with my present surroundings. I have had some experience of the same influences before—I know I have—"

"I also!" he interrupted.

"Well, you must realise this better than I," and I looked at him now with greater courage—"and if you have, you know they have led to trouble. I want you to help me."

"I? To help you?" he said. "How can I help you when you leave me?"

There was something infinitely sad in his voice,—and the old fear came over me like a chill—'lest I should lose what I had gained!'

"If I leave you," I said, tremblingly—"I do so because I am not worthy to be with you! Oh, can you not see this in me?" For as I spoke he took my hand in his and held it with a kindly clasp—"I am so self-willed, so proud, so unworthy! There are a thousand things I would say to you, but I dare not—not here, or now!"

"No one will approach us," he said, still holding my hand—"I am keeping the others, unconsciously to themselves, at a distance till you have finished speaking. Tell me some of these thousand things!"

I looked up at him and saw the deep lustre of his eyes filled with a great tenderness. He drew me a little closer to his side.

"Tell me," he persisted, softly—"Is there very much that we do not, if we are true to each other, know already?"

"YOU know more than I do!" I answered—"And I want to be equal with you! I do! I cannot be content to feel that I am groping in the dark weakly and blindly while you are in the light, strong and self- contained! You can help me—and you WILL help me! You will tell me where I should go and study as you did with Aselzion!"

He started back, amazed.

"With Aselzion! Dear, forgive me! You are a woman! It is impossible that you should suffer so great an ordeal,—so severe a strain! And why should you attempt it? If you would let me, I would be sufficient for you." "But I will not let you!" I said, quickly, roused to a kind of defiant energy—"I wish to go to the very source of your instruction, and then I shall see where I stand with regard to you! If I stay here now—"

"It will be the same old story over again!" he said—"Love—and mistrust! Then drifting apart in the same weary way! Is it not possible to avoid the errors of the past?"

"No!" I said, resolutely—"For me it is not possible! I cannot yield to my own inward promptings. They offer me too much happiness! I doubt the joy,—I fear the glory!"

My voice trembled—the very clasp of his hand unnerved me.

"I will tell you," he said, after a brief pause, "what you feel. You are perfectly conscious that between you and myself there is a tie which no power, earthly or heavenly, can break,—but you are living in a matter-of-fact world with matter-of-fact persons, and the influence they exert is to make you incredulous of the very truths which are an essential part of your spiritual existence. I understand all this. I understand also why you wish to go to the House of Aselzion, and you shall go—"

I uttered an exclamation of relief and pleasure. His eyes grew dark with earnest gravity as he looked at me.

"You are pleased at what you cannot realise," he said, slowly—"If you go to the House of Aselzion—and I see you are determined—it will be a matter of such vital import that it can only mean one of two things,—your entire happiness or your entire misery. I cannot contemplate with absolute calmness the risk you run,—and yet it is better that you should follow the dictates of your own soul than be as you are now—irresolute,—uncertain of yourself and ready to lose all you have gained!"

'To lose all I have gained.' The old insidious terror! I met his searching gaze imploringly.

"I must not lose anything!" I said, and my voice sank lower,—"I cannot bear—to lose YOU!"

His hand closed on mine with a tighter grasp.

"Yet you doubt!" he said, softly.

"I must KNOW!" I said, resolutely.

He lifted his head with a proud gesture that was curiously familiar to me.

"So the old spirit is not dead in you, my queen," he said, smiling. "The old indomitable will!—the desire to probe to the very centre of things! Yet love defies analysis,—and is the only thing that binds the Universe together. A fact beyond all proving—a truth which cannot be expounded by any given rule or line but which is the most emphatic force of life! My queen, it is a force that must either bend or break you!"

I made no reply. He still held my hand, and we looked out together on the shining expanse of the sea where there was no vessel visible and where our schooner alone flew over the watery, moonlit surface like a winged flame.

"In your working life," he continued, gently, "you have done much. You have thought clearly, and you have not been frightened away from any eternal fact by the difficulties of research. But in your living life you have missed more than you will care to know. You have been content to remain a passive recipient of influences—you have not thoroughly learned how to combine and use them. You have overcome altogether what are generally the chief obstacles in the way of a woman's higher progress,—her inherent childishness—her delight in imagining herself wronged or neglected,—her absurd way of attaching weighty importance to the merest trifles—her want of balance, and the foolish resentment she feels at being told any of her faults,— this is all past in you, and you stand free of the shackles of sheer stupidity which makes so many women impossible to deal with from a man's standpoint, and which renders it almost necessary for men to estimate them at a low intellectual standard. For even in the supreme passion of love, millions of women are only capable of understanding its merely physical side, while the union of soul with soul is never consummated:

Where is that love supreme In which souls meet? Where is it satisfied? En-isled on heaving sands Of lone desire, spirit to spirit cries, While float across the skies Bright phantoms of fair lands, Where fancies fade not and where dreams abide."

His voice dropped to the softest musical cadence, and I looked up. He answered my look.

"Dear one!" he said, "You shall go to the House of Aselzion, and with you will be the future!"

He let go my hand very gently—I felt a sudden sense of utter loneliness.

"You do not—you will not misjudge me?" I said.

"I! Dear, I have made so many errors of judgment in the past and I have lost you so many times, that I shall do nothing now which might lose you again!"

He smiled, and for one moment I was impelled to throw hesitation to the winds and say all that I knew in my inmost self ought to be said,—but my rebellious will held me back, and I remained silent,— while he turned away and rejoined the rest of the party, with whom he was soon chatting in such a cheery, easy fashion that they appeared to forget that there was anything remarkable about him or about his wonderful vessel, which had now turned on her course and was carrying us back to Loch Scavaig at a speed which matched the fleetest wind. When she arrived at her former anchorage just opposite the 'Diana,' we saw that all the crew of Mr. Harland's yacht were on deck watching our movements, which must have been well worth watching considering what an amazing spectacle the 'Dream' made of herself and her glittering sails against the dark loch and mountains,—so brilliant indeed as almost to eclipse the very moon. But the light began to pale as soon as we dropped anchor, and very soon faded out completely, whereupon the sailors hauled down canvas, uttering musical cries as they pulled and braced it together. This work done, they retired, and a couple of servants waited upon our party, bringing wine and fruit as a parting refreshment before we said good-night,—and once again the sweet voice of the Egyptian boy singer smote upon our ears, with a prelude of harp-strings:

Good-night,—farewell! If it should chance that nevermore we meet, Remember that the hours we spent together here were sweet!

Good-night,—farewell! If henceforth different ways of life we wend, Remember that I sought to walk beside you to the end!

Good-night,—farewell! When present things are merged into the past, Remember that I love you and shall love you to the last!

My heart beat with a quick and sudden agony of pain—was it, could it be true that I was of my own accord going to sever myself from one whom I knew,—whom I felt—to be all in all to me?

"Good-night!" said a low voice close to my ear.

I started. I had lost myself in a wilderness of thought and memory. Santoris stood beside me.

"Your friends are going," he said,—"and I too shall be gone to- morrow!"

A wave of desolation overcame me.

"Ah, no!" I exclaimed—"Surely you will not go—"

"I must," he answered, quietly,—"Are not YOU going? It has been a joy to meet you, if only for a little while—a pause in the journey,—an attempt at an understanding!—though you have decided that we must part again."

I clasped my hands together in a kind of desperation.

"What can I do?" I murmured—"If I yielded now to my own impulses—"

"Ah! If you did"—he said, wistfully—"But you will not; and perhaps, after all, it is better so. It is no doubt intended that you should be absolutely certain of yourself this time. And I will not stand in the way. Good-night,—and farewell!"

I looked at him with a smile, though the tears were in my eyes.

"I will not say farewell!" I answered.

He raised my hands lightly to his lips.

"That is kind of you!" he said—"and to-morrow you shall hear from me about Aselzion and the best way for you to see him. He is spending the summer in Europe, which is fortunate for you, as you will not have to make so far a journey."

We broke off our conversation here as the others joined us,—and in a very little while we had left the 'Dream' and were returning to our own yacht. To the last, as the motor launch rushed with us through the water, I kept my eyes fixed on the reposeful figure of Santoris, who with folded arms on the deck rail of his vessel, watched our departure. Should I never see him again, I wondered? What was the strange impulse that had more or less moved my spirit to a kind of opposition against his, and made me so determined to seek out for myself the things that he assumed to have mastered? I could not tell. I only knew that from the moment he had begun to relate the personal narrative of his own studies and experiences, I had resolved to go through the same training whatever it was, and learn what he had learned, if such a thing were possible. I did not think I should succeed so well,—but some new knowledge I felt I should surely gain. The extraordinary attraction he exercised over me was growing too strong to resist, yet I was determined not to yield to it because I doubted both its cause and its effect. Love, I knew, could not, as he had said, be analysed—but the love I had always dreamed of was not the love with which the majority of mankind are content—the mere physical delight which ends in satiety. It was something not only for time, but for eternity. Away from Santoris I found it quite easy to give myself up to the dream of joy which shone before me like the mirage of a promised land,— but in his company I felt as though something held me back and warned me to beware of too quickly snatching at a purely personal happiness.

We reached the 'Diana' in a very few minutes—we had made the little journey almost in silence, for my companions were, or appeared to be, as much lost in thought as I was. As we descended to our cabins Mr. Harland drew me back and detained me alone for a moment.

"Santoris is going away to-morrow," he said—"He will probably have set those wonderful sails of his and flown before daybreak. I'm sorry!"

"So am I," I answered—"But, after all—you would hardly want him to stay, would you? His theories of life are very curious and upsetting, and you all think him a sort of charlatan playing with the mysteries of earth and heaven! If he is able to read thoughts, he cannot be altogether flattered at the opinion held of him by Dr. Brayle, for example!"

Mr. Harland's brows knitted perplexedly.

"He says he could cure me of my illness," he went on,—"and Brayle declares that a cure is impossible."

"You prefer to believe Brayle, of course?" I queried.

"Brayle is a physician of note," he replied,—"A man who has taken his degree in medicine and knows what he is talking about. Santoris is merely a mystic."

I smiled a little sadly.

"I see!" And I held out my hand to say good-night. "He is a century before his time, and maybe it is better to die than forestall a century."

Mr. Harland laughed as he pressed my hand cordially.

"Enigmatical, as usual!" he said—"You and Santoris ought to be congenial spirits!"

"Perhaps we are!" I answered, carelessly, as I left him;—"Stranger things than that have happened!"



XII

A LOVE-LETTER

To those who are ignorant of, or indifferent to, the psychic forces working behind all humanity and creating the causes which evolve into effect, it cannot but seem strange,—even eccentric and abnormal,—that any one person, or any two persons for that matter, should take the trouble to try and ascertain the immediate intention and ultimate object of their lives. The daily routine of ordinary working, feeding and sleeping existence, varied by little social conventions and obligations which form a kind of break to the persistent monotony of the regular treadmill round, should be, they think, sufficient for any sane, well-balanced, self-respecting creature,—and if a man or woman elects to stand out of the common ruck and say: "I refuse to live in a chaos of uncertainties—I will endeavour to know why my particular atom of self is considered a necessary, if infinitesimal, part of the Universe,"—such an one is looked upon with either distrust or derision. In matters of love especially, where the most ill-assorted halves persist in fitting themselves together as if they could ever make a perfect whole, a woman is considered foolish if she gives her affections where it is 'not expedient'—and a man is looked upon as having 'ruined his career' if he allows a great passion to dominate him, instead of a calm, well-weighed, respectable sort of sentiment which has its fitting end in an equally calm, well-weighed, respectable marriage. These are the laws and observances of social order, excellent in many respects, but frequently responsible for a great bulk of the misery attendant upon many forms of human relationship. It is not, however, possible to the ordinary mind to realise that somewhere and somehow, every two component parts of a whole MUST come together, sooner or later, and that herein may be found the key to most of the great love tragedies of the world. The wrong halves mated,—the right halves finding each other out and rushing together recklessly and inopportunely because of the resistless Law which draws them together,—this is the explanation of many a life's disaster and despair, as well as of many a life's splendid attainment and victory. And the trouble or the triumph, whichever it be, will never be lessened till human beings learn that in love, which is the greatest and most divine Force on earth or in heaven, the Soul, not the body, must first be considered, and that no one can fulfil the higher possibilities of his or her nature, till each individual unit is conjoined with that only other portion of itself which is as one with it in thought and in the intuitive comprehension of its higher needs.

I knew all this well enough, and had known it for years, and it was hardly necessary for me to dwell upon it, as I sat alone in my cabin that night, too restless to sleep, and, almost too uneasy even to think. What had happened to me was simply that I had by a curious chance or series of chances been brought into connection again with the individual Soul of a man whom I had known and loved ages ago. To the psychist, such a circumstance does not seem as strange as it is to the great majority of people who realise no greater force than Matter, and who have no comprehension of Spirit, and no wish to comprehend it, though even the dullest of these often find themselves brought into contact with persons whom they feel they have met and known before, and are unable to understand why they receive such an impression. In my case I had not only to consider the one particular identity which seemed so closely connected with my own—but also the other individuals with whom I had become more or less reluctantly associated,—Catherine Harland and Dr. Brayle especially. Mr. Harland had, unconsciously to himself, been merely the link to bring the broken bits of a chain together—his secretary, Mr. Swinton, occupied the place of the always necessary nonentity in a group of intellectually or psychically connected beings,—and I was perfectly sure, without having any actual reason for my conviction, that if I remained much longer in Catherine Harland's company, her chance liking for me would turn into the old hatred with which she had hated me in a bygone time,—a hatred fostered by Dr. Brayle, who, plainly scheming to marry her and secure her fortune, considered me in the way (as I was) of the influence he desired to exercise over her and her father. Therefore it seemed necessary I should remove myself,—moreover, I was resolved that all the years I had spent in trying to find the way to some of Nature's secrets should not be wasted—I would learn, I too, what Rafel Santoris had learned in the House of Aselzion—and then we might perhaps stand on equal ground, sure of ourselves and of each other! So ran my thoughts in the solitude and stillness of the night—a solitude and stillness so profound that the gentle push of the water against the sides of the yacht, almost noiseless as it was, sounded rough and intrusive. My port-hole was open, and I could see the sinking moon showing through it like a white face in sorrow. Just then I heard a low splash as of oars. I started up and went to the sofa, where, by kneeling on the cushions. I could look through the porthole. There, gliding just beneath me, was a small boat, and my heart gave a sudden leap of joy as I recognised the man who rowed it as Santoris. He smiled as I looked down,—then, standing up in the boat, guided himself alongside, till his head was nearly on a level with the port-hole. He put one hand on its edge.

"Not asleep yet!" he said, softly—"What have you been thinking of? The moon and the sea?—or any other mystery as deep and incomprehensible?"

I stretched out my hand and laid it on his with an involuntary caressing touch.

"I could not leave you without another last word,"—he said—"And I have brought you a letter"—he gave me a sealed envelope as he spoke—"which will tell you how to find Aselzion. I myself will write to him also and prepare him for your arrival. When you do see him you will understand how difficult is the task you wish to undertake,—and, if you should fail, the failure will be a greater sadness to yourself than to me—for I could make things easier for you—"

"I do not want things made easy for me,"—I answered quickly—"I want to do all that you have done—I want to prove myself worthy at least—"

I broke off,—and looked down into his eyes. He smiled.

"Well!" he said—"Are you beginning to remember the happiness we have so often thrown away for a trifle?"

I was silent, though I folded my hand closer over his. The soft white sleepy radiance of the moon on the scarcely moving water around us made everything look dream-like and unreal, and I was hardly conscious of my own existence for the moment, so completely did it seem absorbed by some other influence stronger than any power I had ever known.

"Here are we two,"—he continued, softly—"alone with the night and each other, close to the verge of a perfect understanding—and yet— determined NOT to understand! How often that happens! Every moment, every hour, all over the world, there are souls like ours, barred severally within their own shut gardens, refusing to open the doors! They talk over the walls, through the chinks and crannies, and peep through the keyholes—but they will not open the doors. How fortunate am I to-night to find even a port-hole open!"

He turned up his face, full of light and laughter, to mine, and I thought then, how easy it would be to fling away all my doubts and scruples, give up the idea of making any more search for what perhaps I should never find, and take the joy which seemed proffered and the love which my heart knew was its own to claim! Yet something still pulled me back, and not only pulled me back, but on and away— something which inwardly told me I had much to learn before I dared accept a happiness I had not deserved. Nevertheless some of my thoughts found sudden speech.

"Rafel—" I began, and then paused, amazed at my own boldness in thus addressing him. He drew closer to me, the boat he stood in swaying under him.

"Go on!" he said, with a little tremor in his voice—"My name never sounded so sweetly in my own ears! What is it you would have me do?"

"Nothing!" I answered, half afraid of myself as I spoke—"Nothing— but this. Just to think that I am not merely wilful or rebellious in parting from you for a little while—for if it is true—"

"If what is true?" he interposed, gently.

"If it is true that we are friends not for a time but for eternity"- -I said, in steadier tones—"then it can only be for a little while that we shall be separated. And then afterwards I shall be quite sure—"

"Yes—quite sure of what you are sure of now!" he said—"As sure as any immortal creature can be of an immortal truth! Do you know how long we have been separated already?"

I shook my head, smiling a little.

"Well, I will not tell you!" he answered—"It might frighten you! But by all the powers of earth and heaven, we shall not traverse such distances apart again—not if I can prevent it!"

"And can you?" I asked, half wistfully.

"I can! And I will! For I am stronger than you—and the strongest wins! Your eyes look startled—there are glimpses of the moon in them, and they are soft eyes—not angry ones. I have seen them full of anger,—an anger that stabbed me to the heart!—but that was in the days gone by, when I was weaker than you. This time the position has changed—and I am master!"

"Not yet!" I said, resolutely, withdrawing my hand from his—"I yield to nothing—not even to happiness—till I KNOW!"

A slight shadow darkened the attractiveness of his features.

"That is what the world says of God—'I will not yield till I know!' But it is as plastic clay in His hands, all the time, and it never knows!"

I was silent—and there was a pause in which no sound was heard but the movement of the water under the little boat in which he stood. Then—

"Good-night!" he said.

"Good-night!" I answered, and moved by a swift impulse, I stooped and kissed the firm hand that rested so near me, gripping the edge of the port-hole. He looked up with a sudden light in his eyes.

"Is that a sign of grace and consolation?" he asked, smiling—"Well! I am content! And I have waited so long that I can wait yet a little longer."

So speaking, he let go his hold from alongside the yacht, and in another minute had seated himself in the boat and was rowing away across the moonlit water. I watched him as every stroke of the oars widened the distance between us, half hoping that he might look back, wave his hand, or even return again—but no!—his boat soon vanished like a small black speck on the sea, and I knew myself to be left alone. Restraining with difficulty the tears that rose to my eyes, I shut the port-hole and drew its little curtain across it— then I sat down to read the letter he had left with me. It ran as follows:

Beloved,—

I call you by this name as I have always called you through many cycles of time,—it should sound upon your ears as familiarly as a note of music struck in response to another similar note in far distance. You are not satisfied with the proofs given you by your own inner consciousness, which testify to the unalterable fact that you and I are, and must be, as one,—that we have played with fate against each other, and sometimes striven to escape from each other, all in vain;—it is not enough for you to know (as you do know) that the moment our eyes met our spirits rushed together in a sudden ecstasy which, had we dared to yield to it, would have outleaped convention and made of us no more than two flames in one fire! If you are honest with yourself as I am honest with myself, you will admit that this is so,—that the emotion which overwhelmed us was reasonless, formless and wholly beyond all analysis, yet more insistent than any other force having claim on our lives. But it is not sufficient for you to realise this,—or to trace through every step of the journey you have made, the gradual leading of your soul to mine,—from that last night you passed in your own home, when every fibre of your being grew warm with the prescience of coming joy, to this present moment, even through dreams of infinite benediction in which I shared—no!—it is not sufficient for you!— you must 'know'—you must learn—you must probe into deeper mysteries, and study and suffer to the last! Well, if it must be so, it must,—and I shall rely on the eternal fitness of things to save you from your own possible rashness and bring you back to me,—for without you now I can do nothing more. I have done much—and much remains to be done—but if I am to attain, you must crown the attainment—if my ambition is to find completion, you alone can be its completeness. If you have the strength and the courage to face the ordeal through which Aselzion sends those who seek to follow his teaching, you will indeed have justified your claim to be considered higher than merest woman,—though you have risen above that level already. The lives of women generally, and of men too, are so small and sordid and self-centred, thanks to their obstinate refusal to see anything better or wider than their own immediate outlook, that it is hardly worth while considering them in the light of that deeper knowledge which teaches of the REAL life behind the seeming one. In the ordinary way of existence men and women meet and mate with very little more intelligence or thought about it than the lower animals; and the results of such meeting and mating are seen in the degenerate and dying nations of to-day. Moreover, they are content to be born for no other visible reason than to die—and no matter how often they may be told there is no such thing as death, they receive the assertion with as much indignant incredulity as the priesthood of Rome received Galileo's assurance that the earth moves round the sun. But we—you and I—who know that life, being ALL Life, CANNOT die,—ought to be wiser in our present space of time than to doubt each other's infinite capability for love and the perfect world of beauty which love creates. I do not doubt—my doubting days are past, and the whips of sorrow have lashed me into shape as well as into strength, but YOU hesitate,—because you have been rendered weak by much misunderstanding. However, it has partially comforted me to place the position fully before you, and having done this I feel that you must be free to go your own way. I do not say 'I love you!'—such a phrase from me would be merest folly, knowing that you must be mine, whether now or at the end of many more centuries. Your soul is deathless as mine is—it is eternally young, as mine is,—and the force that gives us life and love is divine and indestructible, so that for us there can be no end to the happiness which is ours to claim when we will. For the rest I leave you to decide—you will go to the House of Aselzion and perhaps you will remain there some time,—at any rate when you depart from thence you will have learned much, and you will know what is best for yourself and for me.

My beloved, I commend you to God with all my adoring soul and am

Your lover, Rafel Santoris

A folded paper fell out of this letter,—it contained full instructions as to the way I should go on the journey I intended to make to the mysterious House of Aselzion—and I was glad to find that I should not have to travel as far as I had at first imagined. I began at once to make my plans for leaving the Harlands as soon as possible, and before going to bed I wrote to my friend Francesca, who I knew would certainly expect me to visit her in Inverness-shire as soon as my cruise in the Harlands' yacht was over, and briefly stated that business of an important nature called me abroad for two or three weeks, but that I fully anticipated being at home in England again before the end of October. As it was now just verging on the end of August, I thought I was allowing myself a fairly wide margin for absence. When I had folded and sealed my letter ready for posting, an irresistible sense of sleep came over me, and I yielded to it gratefully. I found myself too overcome by it even to think,— and I laid my head down upon the pillows with a peaceful consciousness that all was well,—that all would be well—and that in trying to make sure of the intentions of Fate towards me both in life and love, I could not be considered as altogether foolish. Of course, judged by the majority of people, I know I am already counted as worse than foolish for the impressions and experiences I here undertake to narrate, but that kind of judgment does not affect me, seeing that their own daily and hourly folly is so visibly pronounced and has such unsatisfactory and frequently disastrous results, that mine—if it indeed be folly to choose lasting and eternal things rather than ephemeral and temporal ones,—cannot but seem light in comparison. Love, as the world generally conceives of it, is hardly worth having—for if we become devoted to persons who must in time be severed from us by death or other causes, we have merely wasted the wealth of our affections. Only as a perfect, eternal, binding force is love of any value,—and unless one can be sure in one's own self that there is the strength and truth and courage to make it thus perfect, eternal and binding, it is better to have nothing to do with what after all is the divinest of divine passions,—the passion of creativeness, from which springs all thought, all endeavour, all accomplishment.

When I woke the next morning I did not need to be told that the 'Dream' had set her wonderful sails and flown. A sense of utter desolation was in the air, and my own loneliness was impressed upon me with overwhelming bitterness and force. It was a calm, brilliant morning, and when I went up on deck the magnificent scenery of Loch Scavaig was, to my thinking, lessened in effect by the excessive glare of the sun. The water was smooth as oil, and where the 'Dream' had been anchored, showing her beautiful lines and tapering spars against the background of the mountains, there was now a dreary vacancy. The whole scene looked intolerably dull and lifeless, and I was impatient to be away from it. I said as much at breakfast, a meal at which Catherine Harland never appeared, and where I was accustomed to take the head of the table, at Mr. Harland's request, to dispense the tea and coffee. Dr. Brayle seemed malignly amused at my remark.

"The interest of the place has evidently vanished with Mr. Santoris, so far as you are concerned!" he said—"He is certainly a remarkable man, and owns a remarkable yacht—but beyond that I am not sure that his room is not better than his company."

"I daresay you feel it so,"—said Mr. Harland, who had for some moments been unusually taciturn and preoccupied—"Your theories are diametrically opposed to his, and, for that matter, so are mine. But I confess I should like to have tested his medical skill—he assured me positively that he could cure me of my illness in three months."

"Why do you not let him try?" suggested Brayle, with an air of forced lightness—"He will be a man of miracles if he can cure what the whole medical profession knows to be incurable. But I'm quite willing to retire in his favour, if you wish it."

Mr. Harland's bristling eyebrows met over his nose in a saturnine frown.

"Well, are you willing?" he said—"I rather doubt it! And if you are, I'm not. I've no faith in mysticism or psychism of any kind. It bores me to think about it. And nothing has puzzled me at all concerning Santoris except his extraordinarily youthful appearance. That is a problem to me,—and I should like to solve it."